Imaginary Friend

by Stephen Chbosky

  When no deer came, Mary Katherine turned on the radio to enjoy the rest of the drive. She was planning on listening to Christian rock, but Doug had left the dial on 102.5 WDVE. The station was playing a song by The Doors that she was uncomfortable admitting she liked as much as she did.

  This is the end, my only friend, the end

  Of our elaborate plans, the end

  She arrived at the house before the song ended without seeing a single deer.

  “He has a fever,” Mrs. Reese explained. “So, he’s not allowed out of bed. Understood?”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Reese. I took first-aid courses at youth group, and I’m a trained lifeguard. He won’t leave the bed.”

  “But Mom, it’s still daylight,” Christopher pleaded. “Can’t I go outside?”

  With a cold “No” and a warm “I love you,” Christopher’s mother kissed her son and left his bedroom. Mary Katherine followed her down to the garage. Mrs. Reese went through her checklist of emergency contact numbers and instructions and rules.

  “I just gave him some Tylenol. You can give him some Advil in two hours with his dinner. Hopefully, he’ll fall asleep, but if he doesn’t, his bedtime is eight thirty. Don’t let him work you a minute past nine,” she said.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Reese. I’m tough on bedtimes. I won’t let you down.”

  After Christopher’s mother drove away, Mary Katherine went back inside the warm house. She walked through the kitchen and living room, trying to figure out the best place to work on her Notre Dame application. Once she settled on the kitchen table, she put down her books and went to the refrigerator.

  As she grabbed the carton of milk, she thought about her Notre Dame essay. They wanted her to write about a hero, but she couldn’t figure out which one. Her mom and dad were too obvious. Political ones were too risky. It would be great to write about Jesus, but since Notre Dame was a Catholic school, she was worried that too many kids would pick Him. But if she didn’t pick Jesus, then who would she pick? Pope Francis? John Paul II?

  The Virgin Mary.

  The thought came to her from out of nowhere. Jesus’ mother. Of course. What an inspired choice. That would be perfect!

  She finished pouring the milk and closed the carton. She looked at the picture of the missing girl, Emily Bertovich. Poor thing. She wondered if Emily Bertovich would ever be found. Would she ever apply to college? Who were Emily Bertovich’s babysitters?

  That thought chilled her blood.

  Mary Katherine stopped and looked around the house. Suddenly something felt wrong. It was too quiet. Too warm. Like something was in the house. The cuckoo clock clicked away the seconds on its march to 4:00 p.m. Tick tick tick.

  “Hello?” she said. “Who’s there?”

  Mary Katherine waited for a response. None came. She looked back at the carton of milk. The picture of Emily Bertovich stared back at her. Smiling with those missing front teeth. Mary Katherine’s heart began to pound. She didn’t know what was wrong, but she could sense something. Like her father’s knee that knew there would be a storm an hour before the weatherman did.

  “Christopher? If that’s you, you better go back to bed,” she said.

  The silence was deafening. Mary Katherine quickly returned Emily Bertovich to the cold refrigerator. Then, she hurriedly walked through the kitchen, the dining room, the living room. But there was nothing there. Just that feeling. She was about to go upstairs to check the bedrooms when she looked through the sliding glass doors to the backyard. And there it was, standing in the snow, staring at her.

  A deer.

  The clock struck 4:00 p.m. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Mary Katherine knew something was terribly wrong. She raced upstairs to Christopher’s room.

  “Christopher!” she said. “Christopher! Answer me!”

  She opened his bedroom door and saw that Christopher was not in the bed. His window was open, the curtain fluttering in the breeze. Mary Katherine rushed to the window and stuck her head out.

  “Christopher! Where are you?!” she screamed.

  She looked down and saw the trail of his little footprints through the snow.

  Right past the deer.

  And into the Mission Street Woods.

  Chapter 43

  Something was watching.

  The moment Christopher closed the door to the tree house, he felt it. A big eye. Smothering like a blanket. Just watching and drifting. Looking for something.

  Hunting.

  Christopher knew it was a terrible risk coming into the imaginary world alone. He’d promised the nice man he would never do this, but he had no choice. The nice man was imprisoned somewhere. Or he was already dead. Christopher had to find some information. Proof. A clue. Anything. But he had no idea what was waiting for him on the other side of that door.

  Never come in here without me. Never be in here at night.

  Christopher turned to the window and saw the sun low in the sky. He didn’t have much time before night fell. It was now or never. He put his ear up against the door. At first, everything seemed all right. Then, he heard a faint noise.

  sCratch. sCratch. sCratch.

  Something was under the tree.

  sCratch. sCratch. sCratch.

  Christopher turned back to the window. He saw deer crawling through the clearing, leaving trails in the winter snow. The deer walked up to the tree and scratched with their hooves.

  sCratch. sCratch. sCratch.

  “Remember, Christopher,” the nice man had told him. “The deer work for her.”

  The deer sniffed around the base of the tree for something. Maybe food. Maybe him. Christopher only had an hour of daylight. He needed to find a way around them. He saw a six-point buck chew a small leaf off the low-hanging branch. Right next to something that caught Christopher’s eye.

  The white plastic bag.

  Christopher was so used to seeing the bag on the real side that he didn’t pay it any attention. But something about it looked different on the imaginary side. The bag was hanging lower on the branch than usual. Like a fish bending a pole. The bag must be weighed down. Because…because…

  Something is inside it.

  Christopher’s heart skipped. The nice man must have left him something. He was sure of it. What was it? A map? A clue? He had to know. Christopher waited until the deer had satisfied their hunger (or curiosity) and moved away from the clearing.

  Then, he slowly opened the door.

  Christopher quickly walked down the 2x4 ladder. Little baby teeth nailed into the tree. His boots landed on the crunchy ground, and he tiptoed over to the white plastic bag. He reached inside and pulled out what the nice man had left behind.

  A Christmas card.

  On the front was a picture of Santa Claus yelling at Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer as he pulled his sleigh through the snow.

  WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU FORGOT YOUR GLASSES?!

  Snap.

  Christopher turned around. The deer were back. The six-point buck stared right at him, but its ears perked up as if listening for a predator. The wind whipped through Christopher’s hair, then died like a bird in flight. Christopher held his breath, waiting for the deer to react. But they never did.

  Because they can’t see me.

  Christopher looked back at the Christmas card. Santa screaming at Rudolph.

  WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU FORGOT YOUR GLASSES?!

  This was the clue. Christopher looked back up to the tree house and saw that his body was still there. To the deer, it looked like he was still in the tree house on the real side. Just a little boy playing alone.

  But in here, he was invisible.

  “The more time you spend in the imaginary world, the more powerful you will become,” the nice man had told him. “But the power will come at a price.”

  Christopher waited for the deer to move on, then he quietly opened the card. He hoped to find a note from the nice man, but all he saw was the caption that came with the card…

  WHEN
YOU CAN’T SEE THE LIGHT…

  JUST FOLLOW YOUR NOSE!

  Christopher began to walk.

  He moved out of the clearing and into the woods. He found the footpath, clean and smooth. He followed it until he reached the hollow log near the billy goat bridge. There, he saw the man wrapped inside like a pig in a blanket. The man was asleep. His eyes twitching. Whimpering like a child:

  “Please make it stop. I’m not helping him.”

  Christopher looked around to see if the hissing lady was near. But he couldn’t see anyone. So, he quietly backed away from the man in the hollow log and took off running. He rushed out of the Mission Street Woods, his boots slapping the muddy trail, until he reached the cul-de-sac in front of his house.

  Christopher scanned his street, looking for a clue. In the fading daylight, his street looked like the old negatives from the picture of his dad. It was his neighborhood. But the left was right. And the right was left. And the sun was a lightbulb after a long stare, leaving traces of itself behind.

  He was looking at the world from the other side of a one-way mirror.

  He saw Mary Katherine running through his backyard. She was panicked.

  “CHRISTOPHER!” she screamed. “WHERE ARE YOU?!”

  Mary Katherine is…watching the deer.

  Mary Katherine doesn’t know…the deer are watching her.

  Mary Katherine raced into the Mission Street Woods past the deer. Christopher turned back to the street and saw the man in the Girl Scout uniform. The man was sleepwalking, turning around and around like water leaving a drain. His body twitching, whimpering:

  “Please make it stop. I’m not helping him.”

  Christopher didn’t know where to go or what to do. The daylight was fading. Mary Katherine would find him. He was running out of time. He opened the Christmas card again.

  WHEN YOU CAN’T SEE THE LIGHT…

  JUST FOLLOW YOUR NOSE!

  He looked up and saw the clouds drifting. For a moment, he remembered a handsome pretty face made of clouds. Christopher felt the wind in his hair. And under the wind, barely detectable, was the smell of grilled cheese sandwiches.

  WHEN YOU CAN’T SEE THE LIGHT…

  JUST FOLLOW YOUR NOSE!

  It was coming from the log cabin across the street.

  Christopher turned to the cabin and saw the old lady in the attic. He walked up the driveway. Cautious as a mouse. He didn’t know if he would find a clue or a trap or the hissing lady, but an instinct kept his feet moving. He opened the front door. The family was having an early dinner on the real side. He could smell tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches browning in the pan.

  “Do you think Mom wants some?” the wife asked.

  The words flooded into Christopher’s mind. He staggered. The itch was far more powerful on the imaginary side. Like a dentist’s drill wrapped in sandpaper.

  He instantly understood that the husband hated his wife’s mother. The man wanted her to die just so they could have a life again. He was not a bad man. But he wondered what would happen if he only pretended to feed “the thing in the attic.” He would never do it, of course. But sometimes while he watched a Steelers game, he wondered how long it would take his mother-in-law to starve and give them some peace.

  “Do you think Mom wants some?” the wife repeated, frustrated.

  “I’m sure she’s hungry,” the husband said. “You want me to take her up a plate?”

  “No. I’ll do it, just like I do everything else around here,” the wife huffed.

  I offered. What the fuck do you want from me? the husband thought in silence.

  God, why doesn’t he just ask me to do it with him? the wife thought in silence.

  The wife went to the kitchen. Christopher quietly moved upstairs to the attic. The old lady was turned to the window in a wicker chair. Rocking back and forth and back and forth. Like a metronome on a piano. She looked out the window at the clouds. Grunting in frustration as she struggled with a stack of papers in her hands.

  They were Christmas cards.

  Christopher was startled, but he did not back away. It was another message from the nice man. He was sure of it. He moved to the old woman. The Christmas card on the top of the stack was old and yellow. The dyes and ink faded.

  TOO OFTEN WE UNDERESTIMATE THE POWER OF A TOUCH…

  Christopher touched the woman’s shoulder. In an instant he closed his eyes and felt the stroke that took half of her mind and most of her speech. He saw that the old woman was young once. She was beautiful. Christopher looked down at her hands and saw that the old woman’s fingers were now crippled with arthritis. Jagged like the branches of the tree in the clearing. He took her hands into his and held them. The warmth from his body seemed to move through him to her.

  Christopher let go. The old woman moved her fingers like butterfly wings waking up from a cocoon. She suddenly remembered when she could play the piano and how the beautiful boy in her mother’s parlor complimented her song choice. Blue Moon. Later, on their honeymoon, they found a piano in that big hotel in Niagara Falls, and she played him the same song. The old woman smiled. Her fingers were now relaxed enough to turn the page of the Christmas card.

  A HUG, A SMILE, A KIND WORD,

  ALL WITH THE POTENTIAL

  TO TURN A LIFE AROUND COMPLETELY.

  Christopher saw a personal message written in black ink right underneath it.

  So, go see your mother right now.

  She needs you.

  Suddenly the old woman’s daughter walked into the attic with grilled cheese and soup on a TV tray.

  “Remember when your father gave you this card?” the old woman said and smiled.

  “Yes, Mom. We talked all about it yesterday. Don’t you remember?” the daughter said.

  “I played the piano for him. Your father was such a beautiful boy. We swam in the Ohio River together,” the old woman said.

  The wife gently took the Christmas card out of her mother’s hands.

  “Hey, Mom,” the wife said, pleasantly surprised. “Your hands seem a lot better. And your words are much clearer. How are you feeling?”

  “There’s someone in the room right now,” the old woman said.

  “Okay, Mom. Let’s not get upset.”

  “Go see your mother right now! She needs you!” the old woman yelled.

  “Mom, please calm down,” the wife begged.

  “See your mother! She needs you! Right now! Right now!” the old woman screamed.

  “Gary! Help!” the wife yelled downstairs.

  If the first card told Christopher to follow his nose, the second was unmistakable. He had to see his mother at Shady Pines. As the husband ran into the attic, Christopher backed out of the room and quickly exited the house.

  He looked back across his neighborhood and almost screamed when he saw them. The streets were suddenly lined with people. They all stood still as mailboxes. Lining the yards. A woman in a blue dress. A man in a yellow hat. A wrong yellow. A sick yellow.

  Their eyes were sewn shut.

  Some with zippers.

  Others with thread.

  Just like the kids in his nightmare.

  The mailbox people were all holding a string. Each one. A string leading to the next person and the next. All the way. Down the street. For as far as Christopher could see. Where did they all come from? Where were they all going?

  Never come in here without me. Never be in here at night.

  Christopher looked up at the sky. The sun had moved down the horizon. Hanging low like the white plastic bag on the branch. He had maybe forty-five minutes until the sun set. He had to get to his mother, but he couldn’t possibly run to Shady Pines fast enough. He didn’t know how to drive a car. He needed some kind of transportation. He scanned the neighborhood, and his eyes finally landed on…

  A bicycle.

  It was a three-speed. The kind that used to come with a basket on the front. But this bike was older. Rusted. Sitting alone on a kicksta
nd in the middle of a driveway.

  At the house on the corner.

  Christopher ran down the street toward the bike. He passed a couple standing in the middle of the road. They were asleep like two mannequins, kissing one another, blood running from their mouths. Whispering:

  “Please make it stop. We’re not helping him.”

  Christopher grabbed the bike and stopped when he saw the little nameplate on the handlebars.

  D. OLSON

  The house on the corner is…

  The house on the corner is…

  David Olson’s house.

  Christopher swallowed hard. He knew it could be a trap. It could be a message. The hissing lady could be waiting to ambush him. But the instinct screamed for him to get to his mother at Shady Pines before the sun set.

  He began to pedal. He moved up the road quickly, locking into first gear. Once he started pedaling downhill, he snapped the bike into second, then third. He moved faster. Gaining speed. Heading toward the highway. His legs growing stronger and stronger with each rotation as he saw more and more mailbox people lining the street. Twin little girls, an older Asian man, and a Middle Eastern woman who looked skinny from hunger.

  Their eyes and mouths were sewn shut.

  They were sleepwalking.

  For now.

  At night, the imaginary world wakes up. And then it gets really scary.

  Christopher moved the bike. Faster and faster. At first, he didn’t notice his speed. All he thought about was the fading daylight and his mother at Shady Pines who needed him. But once he looked at the road moving past him in a blur, he couldn’t understand it. The hill wasn’t that steep. The bike wasn’t that light. But he had never gone so fast in his life. He turned onto Route 19. The cars whizzed down the highway on the real side.

  And he was riding right next to them.

  The pavement whipped by at blinding speed. The freezing air climbed into his eyes, making them water. The power coursed through his legs. Christopher saw an old Mustang up ahead filled with teenagers. He pumped his bike right behind it. Then he pedaled alongside it. Then, he passed the teenagers, pumping his legs as if all their blood were in his veins. Christopher moved the bike off the highway and down the road to Shady Pines. He saw the sun chase the horizon and more mailbox people lining the street.